Only Alien on the Planet (11 page)

“No, I think we ought to go,” Caulder said. “It's up to him to decide if he wants to help us or not. If he didn't want us to come, he'd let us know. I think he wants us there.”

So we tucked up our guilt and we went. And it was business as usual—me confused, Smitty patiently going over the problems, time after time, every step spelled out so a kindergartner could understand it.

It was nice that one of us should understand something.

P
ete Zabriski—who had never, not for the tiniest fraction of a moment, ever been
remotely
aware that I existed—
smiled
at me during lunch.

It was so embarrassing, I dropped my spoon.

“What?” Caulder said. We'd been sharing his tapioca. I just looked at him. “
What? “
he asked again.

“A person should be able to do her chewing and swallowing secure from the risk of humiliation,” I said.

“Pardon me?” he said.

“I've got some studying to do.” I stood up.

“What?
Now? “
Caulder said. “It's
lunch.
”

“Yes, now,” I said, and I left him sitting there all by himself with the rest of the tapioca. I had a sudden horror of finding myself in an unstructured environment with a person like Pete Zabriski who obviously knew how to capitalize on a person's discomfort. No more first lunch. Not for now. Maybe never again.

The only alternative was to switch lunches, at least temporarily. It would take some finagling, but I have always found inconvenience more than slightly preferable to terminal humiliation. Of course,
as it turned out, it would have been
much
better if I'd just toughed it out and left things as they were.

Just after third period next day, Caulder passed me in the hall and stuffed a wad of papers on top of the books I was carrying, waggling his eyebrows and grinning like he was really satisfied with himself.

When I got to Mrs. Shein's room, I put the books down on the floor and spread Caulder's wad out flat on the desk. It turned out to be a long report, folded into loose quarters, as if somebody'd meant to throw it away. The title read: A Partial Analysis of Bismarck's Application of Selected Machiavellian Principles by Michael S. Tibbs.

So this was one of Smitty's papers.

I rifled through the pages—ten pages long with footnotes on every page. For Leviaton's class. Leviaton hadn't assigned any research so far this year. So, this was Smitty's idea of what you did for a regular assignment. Top of the class? I guess so.

I'd read as far as the third page when the bell rang. It was impressive; he wrote like an adult, with a sentence structure that was definitely more complex than anything I could have done. Actually, it read like a well-written textbook—clear, but without much life in it. No personality. It was actually more or less exactly what you'd have expected.

Mrs. Shein had started going over the last night's assignment.

I leafed through the rest of the paper while I reached down for my notebook. I hauled the notebook up onto my desk, flipped it open to the math section, and blew Smitty's report
off the desk. I bent over to retrieve the report, and when I straightened up with it, a little piece of paper fluttered from between the pages. I shoved the rest of Smitty's paper into my notebook, and then I reached down again for that little scrap. I could see that there was writing all over it, as though it were a note of some kind, which was curious. I wanted to read it right then, but when I straightened up again, I finally noticed that everybody was watching me.

“Are you quite finished?” Mrs. Shein asked—not unkindly.

My cheeks went hot, and I nodded. She smiled. I leaned over to get my math book which I deposited, unopened, on my desk, and then leaned over again to stick the little scrap from Smitty's paper into my purse.

“You weren't finished,” Mrs. Shein observed.

“I am now,” I said. Her smile had thinned a little. I wanted to put my head down on the desk.

That feeling was destined to last way past lunch.

I spent first lunch hiding out in the library—which was legal, as long as you didn't bring in food. I buried myself back in the reference section, away from slings and arrows of social ridicule, spread out my books, and started digging around in my purse for my pen. When I finally unearthed it, there was that mysterious little scrap from Smitty's paper wrapped neatly around it. I'd nearly forgotten about it.

I still thought it was a note. As I peeled the bit of paper off the pen, I pretty well decided it couldn't have been Smitty's; who was going to be passing notes with Smitty Tibbs? Then, when
I could see the writing more clearly, the regularity of the lines made me think it was probably just the rough notes he'd made for his paper.

But as I began to read, the planet slipped quietly on its axis; the truth of the matter was as far from my conjecture as Beta Centauri is from Chicago. This was not a note of any kind. It was a poem.

I read the first line and stopped.

Poetry is not my best thing. T. S. Eliot, I never understand— Edgar A. Guest and his clones, I understand all too easily. I land somewhere to the obscure left of middle—E. E. Cummings, I like. And Gerard Manley Hopkins, who I also never understand, but whose words make music inside me.

This poem was like that, like Hopkins. At least, the first line was.

I read the first line again, and then I read it still again, out loud this time, whispering. I went on through all the lines, going slowly, carefully, because the meaning wasn't at all concrete.

The images were full of flight. Lights lanced through them, glancing off edges that might have been the tips of wings—and there was air, like the headiness of freedom, like an independence from the bounds of earth—exactly the opposite of darkness. It was an incredible thing to read.

I finally stopped and put my hand down on top of the paper, my eyes closed against those pictures.

What was this doing in Smitty's paper? And how had Caulder gotten a hold of it?

I read it through one more time, my hands pressed together, the tips of them at my lips.

The fact that this had been stuck inside Smitty's paper was uncontestable—you could see the fold lines on it. The question had more to do with how it had gotten there. I picked up the scrap, squinted at the writing, trying to see some element of Smitty's math proof printing in it. If I'd known for certain the writing was Smitty's, that would have told me something—or maybe not; obviously, he'd copied it down for a reason, maybe for another paper… but maybe not. Maybe he'd just copied it because he'd liked it. I thought about that for a moment, and felt my heart speeding up.

If Smitty Tibbs read poetry—if he
liked
it…

I looked down at the little piece of paper in my hands. If he had written this down the same way I do, he'd done it to make the words his own, because these words had spoken something he couldn't have said himself. And if that was so, what I had in my hand was an open window into somebody else's house.

I put the poem down on the table in front of me.

I was trespassing.

The interim bell rang. I swallowed, picked up the little paper and slipped it into the pocket of my shirt. Then I gathered up my things and went to meet Hally.

She was waiting for me by the cafeteria door. “I'm so glad you deserted Caulder,” she said. “I never could figure out why you guys feel like you've got to eat so early.”

For a millisecond, I considered showing her the poem. She was the only other person I knew—except, maybe, Charlie—who would be able to hear the spaces and the speed and the release of passion that I felt in it. And she would probably know where
it had come from, what age of sudden, wild vision. But I found I didn't want to show it to her. I didn't even want to sit around and chat just then. I had this quiet feeling inside of me, the way you do when you've been in a church or something. Mixed with guilt.

I told myself I would show her. Eventually. Just—not for a little while yet.

We took our trays and picked a place away from the heat of the south windows. It was an incredibly warm, brilliant afternoon, and the trees outside the building were like glowing clouds of lemon yellow and scarlet.

When I looked up, I saw Smitty, sitting by himself across the room. The sight of him gave me a tremendous jolt.

“You're not listening,” Hally said, following the direction of my stare. “Oh,” she said with some kind of meaning I didn't understand.

“I'm trying,” I said absently—but that wasn't true. The little paper in my pocket was burning. I put my hand over it and, totally on impulse, said, “I've got something that belongs to him. I'll be back in a minute.”

As I made my way across that cafeteria, my chest started closing up on me. Suddenly I was heart-riven and hard of breathing, and I honestly didn't understand why. I guess I should have listened. I guess I should have trusted my heart.

I came up behind Smitty's chair and glanced over at Hally, who was watching me curiously over the rim of her cup. Then I hunkered down beside the chair, sitting on my heels, and peered up at him. He, of course, took no notice of me at all. My hands went cold.

“Hi,” I said on no breath at all. “Listen,” I said. “Caulder gave me your Machiavelli paper. This was stuck in it—”

His body went rigid.

“I thought you might want it back,” I went on lamely. And then stopped. Something was wrong here. Incredibly wrong. “Anyway…” I murmured, and I pulled the poem out of my pocket and put it on the table in front of him.

He pulled in a breath and sat, frozen, for a fraction of a second. Then he shoved the chair back, nearly knocking me over. He swung around, pulled himself out of the chair. For just one breath of a moment, his eyes glanced across mine. And connected. Like an electric shock. Then he was gone.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything. His eyes were blue. Why didn't I already know that? And I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just seen Charlie inside of them.

Things had gotten very quiet on this side of the cafeteria.

I glanced up—people all around the table were looking at me with profound surprise. But I didn't see any more than that; the truth had finally come to me. The truth about the poem. I glanced across the faces and found Hally's. It was like looking into a mirror, seeing the shock on her face. She canted her head sideways sharply.
You better follow him
, she was saying.

I had the presence of mind to snatch up the poem, and I tucked it back into my pocket as I ran out of the cafeteria. I made it out of the door just in time to see him disappear around the corner, down the causeway toward the classroom building. I had to run to cover that ground before he had a chance to disappear completely.

I followed him down an empty corridor, around a corner, and down another corridor, trying to keep far enough away, so he wouldn't see me, but close enough not to lose him—all the time hoping I wouldn't run into some stray teacher who'd definitely want to know what I was doing in the halls without a pass. Then down the stairs, down one more hallway, and out the back.

This particular back door was taboo. The building was blind here, nothing beyond the door but grass and woods, and the principal didn't allow kids in that area for obvious reasons.

The door was standing open. Smitty had gone through that door and out.

I did not go through the door.

I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and listened. At first, I couldn't hear anything but my own breathing and the blood pounding in my ears. I didn't want to move; I was scared I'd run right into him if I went out there.

I pushed away from the wall and drew close to the lintel, checking to make sure the hall was still clear. The classroom just to my left was empty. I felt like I'd fallen off the edge of the world.

That's when I heard him. Somebody outside the door was in terrible trouble, sucking for air as though there wasn't any left in the world. I pressed my hand over my heart and leaned out just enough, I could see around edge of the doorway.

Smitty was straight-arming the wall, not seven feet away from me, his face down between his arms, gasping and grabbing for air.
Asthma?
I wondered frantically.
Is that what asthma sounds like?
I could feel the bricks under his hands prickling against my own
palms. Smitty was smothering out there in the bright, clear autumn afternoon. I couldn't get my own breath, listening to him.

While I watched, his near arm gave way on him, and he folded up, his back to me, his shoulder against the wall, leaning heavily against the bricks.

I looked around wildly, thinking I should go get somebody. Get some help. But I couldn't leave. And what good would it do? Bringing somebody else into this would only make things worse.

Please
, I prayed, deeper than I'd ever prayed anything.
Please.

I peeked around the corner again, my own legs gone to rubber.

He was squatting on his heels, his back to the wall and his head in his hands. His breathing had slowed down a little. After a minute, he put his head back against the wall and took one long, slow, weary breath.

I fell back against my own side of the wall.

So, he was all right.

Or he would be until he found me standing here, spying on him. I didn't dare look around that corner again. I just left. I walked back toward the lunchroom, feeling cold all over. What was I going to tell Hally? There was no question, she was going to ask—how could she not? The poem was obviously and absolutely not my business, and I didn't know how I was going to explain what had happened without having to explain that too.

Driven out of first lunch. Now exiled from second.

What else could I do? I skulked around library until I was nearly late for my next class, and I hid like a fugitive for the rest of the day.